


I’ll Keep Carrying This For You

by Bittersweet_in_Boston



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also yes to churros in every subway station, F/M, Heart Conditions, Killer glutes, MTA, Make public transit more accessible you jerks, NYC Subway, New York City, No canons involved, Not Canon Compliant, Too Many Cops, Too Many Stairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21425830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston
Summary: “This is awfully nice of you,” you manage to spit out as you trudge up to the next level.“Oh I’m happy to help,” he says in a normal voice, handling your suitcase like it weighs nothing. “But it’s ridiculous there’s no elevator or escalator at this stop, fucken infrastructure.” He looks at you in alarm. “Sorry about the cursing.”“No fucking problem,” you say. “Cuss away.” He grins, then glares at another group of useless cops blocking the stairs on the next platform.“Fucken infrastructure, but they got all this money for transit cops,” he mutters. “Jesus Christ, this city.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	I’ll Keep Carrying This For You

“You have got to be fucken kidding me,” you mutter to yourself. You’ve just gotten off the subway at 53rd Street and 7th Avenue and you’re standing near the stairs clutching your laptop bag and suitcase handle. You’ve been from one end of the platform to the other and there’s no escalator or elevator that you can find. You asked one of the 23 policemen standing on and around the stairs staring glumly at their phones, but he just shrugged and said he didn’t know.

And now those 23 policemen are not only useless, they’re actively in your way. You sigh and shuffle down to a different staircase. You look up the stairs as a few people descend and wonder (again) why you thought it was a good idea to take the subway to your hotel instead of a cab. You thought, rightly, that it would be faster but now it also looks like a faster way to a heart episode. Your heart condition isn’t terrible, you’ve known people with much worse, but you’re tired and stairs have always been your nemesis.

You take a deep breath, pick up your suitcase and start to climb, counting as you go. One, two, three, four...only 12 more to the landing, you can do this...seven, eight, nine...

“Hey, excuse me, can I give you a hand?” A figure looms in front of you and you clutch the railing in surprise, willing yourself not to lean away from the figure and fall backward. You take a quick moment to look down, and then you look up.

It’s a man, about six feet tall but he looks taller since he’s standing two steps above you. He’s wearing scuffed black boots, tight ripped jeans, and a beat-up black leather jacket over a worn white t-shirt. His longish greasy hair hangs in his face...and what a face. Piercing blue-grey eyes showing genuine concern, chiseled jaw, three days of beard framing full lips...lips that smile as you stare at him. Your first impression was “prime contestant in the ‘scruffy hipster or homeless person?’ game” but as you look at that face you realize that doesn’t apply at all. 

You also realize that you should say something rather than staring, out of breath, at that face. But right before you can squeak something out, he says it again, more gently.

“Can I give you a hand?” His voice, while soft, still carries in the noisy train station.

“Oh thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’ll be alright...” you start to say, thinking that you need to preserve the pleasantries and you don’t want to be beholden to a total stranger, as smoking hot as he is. But you stop as you breathe harder and try to get your heart rate under control.

“Will you be alright? Really?” hot greasy guy says abruptly. Then he checks himself and says, “Sorry, that was rude, I know you know best, you just seemed like you could use some help.” He puts his hands up, “No strings, no obligations,” he says, one corner of his mouth tipping up. “But I’m happy to carry your suitcase up to the street for you.”

You hesitate for another moment, but your heart is pounding and you know you still have at least two more levels to climb, so you silently pass hot guy your suitcase.

“Are you sure...this isn’t a big imposition? You were going...downstairs...to the lower platform,” you say in gasps, as he turns around and starts climbing the stairs slowly with you. You look down at his thighs and realize that he could probably reach the street level in 30 seconds or less with those quads. You’re suddenly glad you can’t see his glutes from this angle, as you might spontaneously combust. You exhale aloud.

He smiles and his eyes crinkle. “I *was* going uptown,” he says, “but it’s nothing that can’t wait til later.”

“This is awfully nice of you,” you manage to spit out as you trudge up to the next level.

“Oh I’m happy to help,” he says in a normal voice, handling your suitcase like it weighs nothing. “But it’s ridiculous there’s no elevator or escalator at this stop, fucken infrastructure.” He looks at you in alarm. “Sorry about the cursing.”

“No fucking problem,” you say. “Cuss away.” He grins, then glares at another group of useless cops blocking the stairs on the next platform.

“Fucken infrastructure, but they got all this money for transit cops,” he mutters. “Jesus Christ, this city.”

“What’s the deal with that?” you ask, panting with the effort. Stairs! Are! The Worst! “Has there been...a lot of crime? I’m from Boston...and our subway has...a lot of access and reliability problems...but you don’t see this many T cops all over the place.” He shakes his head.

“Nah, no real crime, they’re just lookin for fare evaders and hassling musicians and ladies selling churros,” he says, disgust threading through his voice.

“People sell churros in the subway??” you say, as you two reach the platform with the turnstiles, where another 15 cops loiter near the gates. “I’d kill someone for a churro right now.” Your new friend flashes you another crinkly smile.

“No churros right in this neighborhood,” he says. “But please don’t kill anyone, ‘specially in front of all these cops.”

“No worries,” you laugh. “Honestly I’d rather...have a drink...at this point.”

“That you can find around here,” he says, eyes twinkling. You two get to the bottom of the stairway to the street. “Can you make it up one more flight?” You take a deep breath.

“Absolutely,” you say, with more conviction in your voice than you actually feel. He seems to sense this hesitation.

“You sure?” he queries, looking into your face. “We can wait a minute.”

You are suddenly really frustrated with your health problems, especially because you’re young and you always feel like you *should* be able to do this with minimal effort. Stupid heart.

“No, I’m good,” you say, determined. “Let’s do this.” He looks doubtful, but then nods and says, “OK.”

You use your frustration to power your way up the final flight faster than you would have otherwise done. You want to prove to yourself - and your new friend - that you *can* do this. Hot greasy guy follows behind you on the narrow stairs as other people stream down from the street. It’s a short flight, but not that short.

“Hey, we can go slower,” he says gently. “No need to push.”

“No, I’m fine!” you say, a little more stridently than you intended. You reach the street level and realize your heart is beating wildly. You can hardly catch your breath and you realize you’ve overdone it. Shit. You stagger forward a few steps to get away from the stairs - you’re always terrified of falling backwards - your knees buckle and you’re about to crumple forward to the ground...

...when your new friend gently grabs you from behind to keep you from falling, turns you around, and hugs you to him with his right arm as he braces against the wall of the closest building with his other shoulder. You turn your head into him to steady yourself and bury your face under his arm. He smells like vetiver, sweat, and leather. He smells like coming home.

“Hey,” he says sweetly against your hair. “I’ve got you. Are you alright? Want me to call an ambulance or get some help?” You shake your head, face still wedged in his armpit.

“Just give me a minute,” your muffled voice vibrates against his body. He chuckles.

“Take your time,” he whispers, continuing to hold you to him.

After a minute, you feel your heart rate slow and your head clear. You take a last breath against him and then look up into his face. He’s smiling and his eyes are lidded but bright.

“Hey,” you say, a bit shakily. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” he murmurs. Then he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum with a hint of tobacco. Then he pulls back, his cheeks pink. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you blurt out. “I—it’s—OK.” You stop, flustered, and he carefully brings you upright.

People stream past you both to get to the subway entrance, blasé as only New Yorkers can be. You look at each other for another minute.

“Well,” you say awkwardly. “Thanks for all your help.”

“My pleasure,” he smiles, showing a bit of teeth. You are hesitant to let go of that smile, and those teeth, and those crinkles (and those thighs!) so soon.

“So...” you start hesitantly. “My hotel is just down the street and it has a nice bar. Can I buy you a drink?”

He exhales and his face visibly sags with relief. “Absolutely,” he says. He lifts up your suitcase. “I’ll keep carrying this for you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, taking his other hand in yours. It’s gloved and feels strangely unyielding to the touch. “Thanks again...?” You hesitate.

“James,” he says, squeezing your hand.

“James,” you repeat, and smile into his eyes as you walk slowly down the street.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t find elevators or escalators in the 53rd St/7th Ave subway station, but if they have them, apologies to the MTA. No apologies, however, for the critique of the MTA’s priorities and budget decisions.
> 
> Thanks also to my lovely friend Hat for the prompt. xxx


End file.
